


A Gentleman's Agreement

by Cards_Slash



Series: Second Verse [1]
Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sexual Coercion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:15:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22657642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cards_Slash/pseuds/Cards_Slash
Summary: “What’s wrong, Doc?  You don’t like those words?  I’ve got more.  Tell me which ones you like better…”“Shut up,” Doc hissed at him.There was a perfectly good door to the side.  Doc wasn’t much for retreat but there was always value to escaping with your life.  This wasn’t a matter of life or death but a question of honor.  What sort of honor did a man have when he’d dragged a man to eternal torture not even a full twenty four hours ago?  What did it matter what he gave up to get what he wanted when it was still his decision to give it up?(And wasn’t that just like this dramatic bastard, smirking at him from two feet away, to make it as impossible as it could be to give in.)
Relationships: Doc Holliday/Bobo Del Rey | Robert Svane
Series: Second Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1632727
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	A Gentleman's Agreement

**Author's Note:**

> mind the warnings. if you're interested I am also on tumblr as [bewareofchris](https://bewareofchris.tumblr.com/)

Doc had no expectations of safety; any man in his position that started to be so foolish as to think of himself as safe would wind up dead. Still, he would have  _ preferred  _ not to have the relative peace of his tiny tin home interrupted by the sudden wrenching squeal of the door being yanked open at just past two in the morning. He might have enjoyed the notion that he could get a decent chance at sleeping.

His guns were a complicated affair to loosen from their holster when he wasn’t wearing it but the knife he kept under his pillow was convenient enough to grab in a pinch. There was barely enough light to see by, and for one disorienting moment, the only thing he could make sense of was the slow, slithering sound of a laugh. The bright light of the moon filtered through the open door, catching here-and-there on the fuzzy tips of an atrocious fur coat.

“Fuck,” Doc whispered.

“Well now,” Bobo said as he invited himself from the open doorway right into Doc’s space, “you didn’t tell me you came back with mind-reading gifts.” The door snapped shut without anyone pulling it. The light flicked on, piss-yellow and weak, filling up the little space with equal parts shadow and light. 

Bobo was a monster in a small space, with his hunched shoulders looking as big as a bear’s in that stupid coat. He was smiling at Doc the way you smiled at something you planned to skin alive; his fingers were drawing shapes in the air while he worked out exactly how he meant to proceed with whatever stupid plan had brought him this far. 

“Were you planning on explaining what you are doing?” Doc didn’t drop the knife, but he threw the thin blankets off his legs so he could get his feet on the ground. A man had a better chance at winning a fight when he had the chance for fair footing. 

“I’m taking advantage of our partnership.” Every syllable of that last word was dragged out over a wet tongue. It dripped sarcasm as heavy as syrup, filling up the air with a sticky unease. Bobo’s tongue ran across his lips as he flexed his shoulders and the coat split down the middle. There he was, a showman without a shirt, drawing all the attention to his shiny silver belt buckle. “See, you’ve brought my attention to a certain issue of control I’m having with some of my weaker-minded brethren.” He oozed over that word, like he was mocking a man for using a decent vocabulary. “All my time is spent  _ reminding _ these worthless,  _ mindless _ insects why they need my leadership. I haven’t had any time for myself.”

“Are you approaching a point in the conversation where you are planning on getting to a point?” Doc was half-naked (without his guns) and half-asleep (most likely the reason he had been interrupted at this time of morning) and not half-interested in the theatrics of Bobo Del Rey. 

“My point,” was a click in Bobo’s mouth, and a low growl to follow it. He lurched forward in one great motion of bouncing fur and intent. His eyes turned blood-red as hell itself and his hand closed on Doc’s neck. They were sharing a single breath between them as Bobo’s smile curled up at the edges and his voice was thick as thunder saying, “I have a need, and a so-called legendary lover in my employment. My point,” might as well been a tongue thrust into Doc’s mouth for how lascivious and invading it sounded, “is I want to fuck you, and you’re going to let me.”

Now, Doc had had his share of unsavory proposals in his day. He had a hell of a reputation in life that hadn’t eased with his death, and any man that thought he had something to prove was bound to show up trying to pick a fight. That’s what happened when you were good at something, everyone decided they were better. Sooner or later you got tired of burying the bodies of the men that weren’t. But this, oh, this hand on his throat. The  _ boldness _ of assumption that he’d just roll over and take it like he was told--well.

Neither of them were exactly shocked at the scratch of the knife’s edge slid up the inside of Bobo’s thigh. Doc tipped his head back with one hand fisted up in that stupid fucking coat. “You’re going to release your grip on me, Bobo Del Rey.”

Bobo growled in his chest as his smile turned  _ mean _ . His fingers loosened by they didn’t pull away. “You’re going to give me what I want,  _ Henry _ .”

The knife tipped, the blade sliced through a layer of fabric with no more effort than drawing a breath. Doc was leaning back against the loop of fingers around his throat, shifting his weight to get to his feet. He might have liked it better if Bobo had flinched, even if only for a second. But the bastard was licking his lips like he’d already won. “I do not care for your presumptions,  _ Bobo _ .”

“I have something you want,” Bobo said. His hand flattened against the base of Doc’s throat, his fingers curled like hooks, scratching from the bottom of his jaw to the pulled-open buttons of his paper-thin shirt. Bobo wasn’t even looking at his face, standing there with his legs spread around one hell of a sharp knife and the whole weight of his arm ripping a long tear down Doc’s shirt. His nails were like claws, scraping a pink stripe as they went. “You have something  _ I want _ .”

“I’d say I have two  _ sometimes _ you might want,” Doc hissed. He shifted the knife higher, and it must have struck skin because Bobo’s breath did hitch then. Any other man might have called it a whimper, but Bobo twisted it into a snarl as he coiled his hand into one half of the remains of Doc’s shirt. He yanked it back over his shoulder.

“Just the one,” Bobo whispered. He leaned back with a careless sweep of his hand and the knife threw itself to the side and lodged into the wall by the door. Doc might have made a grab for his guns, but they rattled in their hostler and flew off the bed to the opposite end of the God damn tin can he found himself sleeping in. “Things are different now,” Bobo assured him. 

Doc had been in worse situations, but he’d very rarely been in worse situations with less clothes. What remained of his shirt was hanging half off one shoulder on one side and tangled around the other elbow. He didn’t have so much as a rock to use as a weapon and not nearly enough space to make any significant attempt at providing a decent fight. “There are most certainly more decent methods to use when asking for a  _ personal _ favor.”

Bobo laughed. “ _ Where _ are my manners,” was pure mockery. He leaned back against the splintery table so his coat split around his slim hips. His knees were wide enough that any man might have mistaken it for an invitation. His hands were folded over the edges of the table as he said, “suck my cock,  _ please _ .”

Oh. Now those were  _ filthy _ words. Those were the sort of things you said to a man in a back alley. The kind of thing that required getting dirt on your knees. The very thing that left you covered in a  _ mess _ but they were not the sort of words you went around using freely. They weren’t a  _ reasonable _ request for a  _ reasonable _ exchange. Bobo Del Rey was a son of a bitch but he sure as hell knew  _ that _ .

He was just  _ smiling _ at outrage, with a flutter of  _ anticipation _ skipping up his spread thighs and across his slanted belly. He was thick in his jeans, humming to himself with white-white teeth and a pink-fucking tongue. “What’s wrong, Doc? You don’t like those words? I’ve got more. Tell me which ones you like better…”

“Shut up,” Doc hissed at him. 

There was a perfectly good door to the side. Doc wasn’t much for retreat but there was always value to escaping with your life. This wasn’t a matter of life or death but a question of honor. What sort of honor did a man have when he’d dragged a man to eternal torture not even a full twenty four hours ago? What did it matter what he gave up to get what he wanted when it was still his decision to give it up?

(And wasn’t that just like this dramatic bastard, smirking at him from two feet away, to make it as  _ impossible _ as it could be to give in.)

“Her  _ name _ ,” Doc said. He dragged his stare from where it had settled over Bobo’s dick straining in his pants to his face. “No more fucking games. No more tasks. No more missions. No more anything.”

Bobo rolled his eyes, “fine. You give me what I want,  _ exactly _ what I want. I’ll give you what you want.” He even pulled his hand away from the table to offer it in a gentleman’s handshake. 

It was no worse a bargain than being asked to make friends with the Earp sisters just to betray them. It was a damn shot better than being sent out to put his life in danger accomplishing what the whole sorry lot of revenants didn’t seem to be capable of. Things went well and he’d be free of this  _ partnership _ with nothing more than a little bit of wounded pride. 

Doc took Bobo’s hand, “but if you don’t follow through on your side of this bargain, I’ll hog-tie and deliver you to Wynonna Earp myself.”

Bobo’s grin was a pleased rumble of noise, “kinky.” Then he pulled his hand back and Doc’s with it, dragging him a stutter step forward. “Now, I believe you were just getting on your knees?”

Doc weighed the pros and cons of punching Bobo in the dick. It might complicate the matters of providing the satisfactory sexual encounter that would get him the witch’s name but it would make him  _ feel _ better. He smiled right back at Bobo’s overly pleased face as he dropped both his hands to the man’s belt buckle. He pulled it when he didn’t need to, just to jerk Bobo out of his self-satisfied lean as he undid the buckle. 

“Funny,” Bobo said over the slither of his belt pulling out of it’s loops. “I always heard you were a  _ gentle _ lover.”

“Well, now, you must have heard that from all the lovely ladies that didn’t  _ coerce _ me into performing  _ lewd _ sex acts on them.” His fingers twisted into the button of his Bobo’s pants with more force than was needed to get it free. He folded the waist of the jeans over before he yanked them  _ down _ . They scraped over Bobo’s pale thighs as the man hissed through his clenched teeth. “Besides,” Doc said, “I did not get the impression that you are presently looking for  _ tenderness _ .” 

He dug his nails into Bobo’s skin, starting just above the jut of his hip bones and he dragged them down as he lowered himself to his knees. As he suspected, there was a half-heeled cut across the inside of Bobo’s thigh, so far up it was only a hair’s width away from being his balls. (What a man, to stand there with a smirk on his face and a knife at his dick. What an idiot.) 

Doc expected some further crudeness. His ears were straining to hear an insult that was almost certainly coming. But Bobo was  _ quiet _ for the first time, barely even rumbling one of his obnoxiously throaty sounds. It was just the rough pads of his fingers pushing through Doc’s swept-back hair. The flat of his palm cupped around the back of Doc’s head but he didn’t pull (yet). The silence gave him enough time to wrap his hand around Bobo’s dick, to slide his dry-and-callous fist up from base to tip and down again. He was working out how much skill he was willing to put into the task before him when Bobo’s free hand slapped against the side of his face.

“We both know you know what you’re doing,” Bobo said from over his head. His thumb was pushing at the seam of Doc’s mouth. It slid across his teeth and left the taste of blood, metal and  _ dirt _ behind. “Open your mouth.”

Doc looked up at the bastard smiling at him. There was a battle of wills happening that could  _ not _ be won with resistance. (That didn’t mean that Doc wasn’t willing to try.) He rolled his head back against the hand cupped around it and let his mouth fall open. What a sight he must have been, dropping his hands to rest on his own bent thighs, head back, mouth open. 

Bobo was  _ furious _ but he wasn’t winning. He shifted out of that aggressively casual lean back because Doc’s mouth was just beyond reach. And he was holding him still with both hands, because there’d been no agreement that Doc provide anything but his mouth. And they did both  _ know _ that Doc knew what to do with a dick because it had been something of an open secret in the old days. 

A man like this one sliding his cock across Doc’s slack lips? Well, a man like that would make it his business to know who had a good mouth for fucking. 

Bobo didn’t want his  _ mouth _ ; he wanted Doc’s compliance. He was pushing his dick into Doc’s mouth and snarling between his clenched teeth, because he’d gotten exactly what he asked for and not at all what he wanted. That was fine because Doc had plenty of shitty lovers in his past, and he’d been pushed into dark corners and shoved on his knees before. He’d had his hair pulled and his mouth fucked. 

There was an art to winning when you were losing, and it was almost exactly like the way Bobo’s fingernails bit into the skin of his scalp. It was the low-deep sounds of fury rising out of the pit of Bobo’s quivering belly. His boots were scraping across the dirty floor as he settled into a rhythm that drove his cock deeper into Doc’s mouth, over his tongue so it hit his throat. 

Bobo’s grin was victory when it made Doc gag. He was coughing so hard it might have been easier to vomit on the bastard’s shoes. And Bobo’s hand was soothing-and-sweet pushing through his hair. “Should we keep doing it like this?” Bobo asked.

Doc’s voice was hoarse, his face must have been red as a cherry. There was spit so thick across his lips and down his face it had slicked the hair flat to his chin. “If you insist, we must,” Doc said. 

There was wisdom in knowing which men could handle a dare and which men didn’t know when to quit. For all his bluster and all his bullshit, Bobo Del Rey was a  _ controlled _ man. His acting was a treat to watch but it was just another tool he kept in his belt to get what he wanted. And what  _ Bobo _ wanted, he wasn’t going to get. That settled on him from the tops of his fluffy shoulders to the agitated shift of his boots. “Oh, I insist,” Bobo said.

So Doc opened his mouth and Bobo sneered at him. All that wounded pride in his hateful stare did nothing to stop him from tightening his hands on Doc’s face and fucking into his mouth. He was  _ strong _ but he lacked any finesse. His rhythm was a sloppy heartbeat, driving on and on with nothing but adrenalin to back it up. It might even have felt  _ good _ to have his cock driving so carelessly into Doc’s mouth if he’d put any effort into making it good. This wasn’t meant to be  _ enjoyed _ .

At best, they were simply going to have to endure one another until someone gave.

And from the taste running across Doc’s tongue, he wouldn’t have to endure it longer than any other man who’d taken to the idea of venting their frustrations on him. He gagged on a jerky thrust, and shoved Bobo back by the thighs. The man fell into the table behind him as Doc bent over wheezing for breath. 

Somewhere over his head, Bobo was breathing so hard it was taking up all the space in the room. The little metal buckles on his coat were rattling as he shrugged the ugly, massive thing off his shoulders. It fell with a thud.

Doc was still heaving for breath when he straightened up. He couldn’t imagine how he looked, with roughed-red lips and a sweat-shiny face. But Bobo had a neck as pink as seashells. “As fun as this is,” he said through his aching throat, “I would be remiss if I did not remind you of other delights of which I am sure you wish to partake.”

Bobo’s smile was all shock. He was working up to mocking, hissing out, “why Doc, are you offering me something?”

“Only what I had already agreed to offer,” Doc said. He shrugged his shoulder to work the ruined shirt off his arms so he could wipe his face with it. “We can continue with this if you’d prefer, but we both know you can’t argue with the sticky white proof of  _ satisfaction _ when it comes.”

Bobo growled. 

Doc rested back against his bent legs. He relaxed his body, like he was only waiting to find out how he could be of  _ use _ . It must have pissed Bobo off because his eyes were boiling up red and black rimmed. His growling turned deep and the walls around them started to rumble. “Now, Bobo,” he said as if they were both reasonable men.

“Shut up,” Bobo said. He twisted around to grab his coat and dig through the pockets to find what he was looking for. (There was, at least, something to be said about a man who came prepared to get what he wanted.) “Take my boots off.”

Doc frowned at him.

Bobo smirked with his eyebrows, like a God damn child.

“Well, I would be happy to be of help to you.” Doc had to push his jeans off the boots just to get a good hold to pull them off. And since he was down there anyway, and it was sure to be a follow up command, he pulled the pool of ripped jeans off too.

“Eager?” Bobo asked.

If there were any answer to that question that could have been said without rolling his eyes, Doc might have wasted the time addressing it. But seeing how he was doubtlessly about to get bent across a table or bed or ratty old couch, it seemed to be in his best interest to refrain from antagonizing the man doing the bending. So he let his answer be lifting himself off the floor and back to sitting on the edge of his bed.

Bobo was stroking his cock while he worked out what he was going to do next. His tongue was curled into the edge of his mouth as he stared at Doc and whatever the process of his thoughts, he said: “take your clothes off.”

They passed a silent moment, Doc easing his freshly stolen jeans down his legs and Bobo watching him like he’d been waiting a hundred years just for the moment. That was a funny man to look at a man you cornered at two in the morning, but there was no mistaking that raw hunger in Bobo’s stare. 

“I assume that I am pleasing to look upon,” Doc said. He might have added something else, might have pointed out how Bobo’s fist tightened on his slobbering dick or how his breath caught just when Doc straightened up again. He might have pointed out there was a shift in the power of this situation and that Bobo had even less than he’d walked in with. “Do you have a preference as to--”

There were a thousand things that Doc might have expected from this encounter. Being gagged by a cock and slapped in the face were high on that list, but being pulled into a kiss was not. It was always the things you didn’t expect that knocked you off your feet, and that must have been why he damn near fell over when Bobo’s tongue pushed into his mouth. He tasted like gunpowder and smoke and something turned  _ bad _ , but there was nothing hateful in the clutch of his hands on Doc’s face. No, that touch was damn near tender as it eased down to rest at the base of his throat.

Doc didn’t know he’d moved his arms until his hand was moving up Bobo’s side, sliding across the dips and bumps of his body, up and up to rest against his ribs. For a minute, a man might be forgiven for failing to remember the particulars of the situation. He hadn’t had the opportunity to touch anyone in a hundred God damn years, and regardless of the taste of hell in Bobo’s mouth, his body felt just like a man’s. 

The kiss snarled to a stop, Bobo’s forehead was pushing against his as he pulled his mouth back. His breath was as thick as smoke, his eyes were still closed as he bit, “lay down,” out through his gritted teeth.

As unsteady as he found his legs to be at that precise moment, there was no way to fall into the rickety, groaning little bed with any grace. He was too close to it, with no room to move at all. Laying down was as much falling over as it was any controlled method of getting on the bed. He’d barely gotten his legs on the sagging mattress before he was being dragged into position by Bobo’s rough hand on his ankle.

“Seems like you’ve been enjoying this,” Bobo said. He was looming, like his body was half as big as that coat made him look. He crept forward on his knees, as his hand moved up from Doc’s ankle to his knee, pushing it up and out to make space. He ducked down to run his tongue up the length of Doc’s cock and laughed like a roll of thunder at how it made Doc’s hips twitch up against his mouth. “That’s nice for you,” he said. 

“I do try to make certain fucking is pleasurable for all parties involved,” Doc said, “that’s just manners.”

Bobo snorted at that, and kicked Doc’s other leg out of his way as he settled on his knees where he wanted to be. “Now, how do I want to do this?” That wasn’t a question that was inviting an answer. At least not an answer that Bobo was going to listen to. His fingers were thick, and rough, scratching callouses across the sensitive skin at the crease of Doc’s thigh. He was working out how rough he could fuck a man and still expect cooperation on the matter. 

And Doc wasn’t going to play along. He wasn’t going to go off asking for any special favors just to give Bobo something to deny him. No, he bent his knees and set his heels against the bed with his legs nice and open. “How  _ do _ you want to do this?” Doc repeated.

“You’re a cocky shit,” Bobo hissed at him. He leaned forward again, pressed one hand to Doc’s chest like there was any need to hold down a willing man. Maybe that’s what Bobo thought he was going to be doing, and Doc had gone off and ruined all his fun. He was low enough to feel the heat of his body, and just far enough away not to feel his skin brushing against Doc’s. There was nothing touching him but the palm against his chest and the scrape of fingers dropping from his thigh, working their way behind his balls and down--

There were few things less unpleasant in this world than having some mannerless heathen try to shove a dry dick in your ass, but Bobo sneer was  _ daring _ him to say something. Doc was a man made of bad choices and  _ pride _ ; he stretched on the bed and crossed his arms behind his back. “You say that like you do not like it,” he said.

Bobo was bared-teeth rage, giving up a staring contest he couldn’t win, to drop his viciously smiling mouth to Doc’s throat. His teeth were sharp as old steak knives, digging into tender flesh. It hurt as much as it didn’t, because Doc’s body had  _ thoughts _ about being blanketed by another man. Oh hell, did it have thoughts about rocking right up into that touch, spine arched, legs spread, waiting for what was  _ surely _ coming.

He had half a mind to say something he was going to regret just to get Bobo over this speed bump he’d run into. Actions, as they say, were worth more than words. He slapped his hands across the rumpled sheets in search of the lube that had been dropped as he fisted his hand in the silly patch of hair Bobo hadn’t shaved off his head. 

“Don’t,” was the answering growl against his throat, the sudden twisting grip of a fist in his own hair, “touch my hair.” There was a threat in those words more real, and more dangerous than any of the cocky bullshit that had come before it. 

Maybe it was the wrong time to pop open the top of the lube, maybe it gave off the wrong impression about how he might enjoy being manhandled, or how he approved of the ache of that bruise forming on his throat. 

“Excuse me,” Doc said. 

Bobo loosened his grip on Doc’s hair just so he could fix his own, and once he’d finished preening, he plucked the lube out of Doc’s hand. His weight was leaning to the side, his arm slid half under Doc’s body as he poured a little pool of cool, slick lube on Doc’s belly. It ran like a river, down his belly to his navel. It was as crude as it was stupid, how Bobo was licking his lips, rubbing his fingers into the lube exactly how he planned to rub his cock on him. 

Doc was the center of a show of Bobo’s making, drawing in all the bastard’s attention as his fingers dragged down and down. The blunt tips of his fingers felt barely slick enough to work, and Bobo had no intention of moving forward with any speed. No, he was going to take as much fucking time as he wanted to work those fingers into Doc, because he was getting all hard and slippery-wet against his hip just watching Doc’s face. Whatever Bobo was waiting for, he was quivering with anticipation as the tips of his fingers pressed  _ inward _ . 

There were too many ways to lose this round, and not enough information about what the fuck Bobo Del Rey was playing at. Doc closed his eyes because he needed to  _ think _ , but he was being held in place by the weight of something like a demon, slowly split open on thick fingers. Just beyond the forgiving darkness of his eyelids, he heard the way Bobo sighed at him. At how he was gathering up to say something stupid. 

Might be, letting him say that something would give Doc an angle to work that wasn’t lay there getting fucked by a snail. That didn’t mean he was prepared for how close Bobo’s voice was to his face, at how he could feel the man’s beard and his lips as he spoke. Bobo said: “I wonder what Wyatt thinks of you now.”

Well, that was indeed an answer to the question of motivation. It seemed like a piss-poor excuse to invade a man’s home at two in the fucking morning with lecherous intent of a malicious nature. The grate of those hateful words, aside, Bobo had  _ finally _ managed to fuck his fingers into Doc’s body, and the sensation of being split open was a pleasant shock to draw his attention away from the smirking satisfaction of the brimstone-breathed man looming over him.

Doc drew in a breath that shuddered through his body before he rolled his face toward Bobo. They were knocking noses together, with Doc’s eyes only open far enough to focus on Bobo’s smile. “ _ Wyatt _ would think I was a saint for all that patience it’s taking to lay here while you take your sweet damn time figuring out how to fuck me properly.”

Bobo’s laugh was as genuine as it was shocked right out of his body. It shook them both and the bed and probably the whole damn tin can around them. He was shaking his head with a sneer of a smile, twisting his hand to fuck his fingers in as deep as he could get them. The stretch was too sudden to be good and given the circumstances, it didn’t seem like Bobo was going to go out of his way to make the event a mutually enjoyable one. 

“I forgot how much I hated your fucking mouth,” Bobo hissed at him. “You never shut the fuck up.” He shifted onto his knees as he pulled his hand free so he could grab both of Doc’s legs and push them up. 

“Now I thought you enjoyed my mouth, of course,” Doc grunted at being bent in half like an old newspaper, “I was just judging by the amount of--” 

Bobo surged up to grab his jaw. He was simply  _ seething _ , all but  _ shaking _ with how angry he was. The weight of his body was pushing Doc’s knees painfully close to his shoulders. “Maybe I wasn’t clear. Shut,” he hissed. His fingers pushed into Doc’s mouth with no more finesse than they had pushed into him before, “ _ up _ .”

Doc had the self-preservation of a dead man. It wasn’t bravery, it was an inability to lose that got him in trouble again and again. Bobo was vying for something like dominance and Doc closed his mouth around those fingers taking up space on his tongue and sucked on them. He lavished the fingers with all the care and attention that he hadn’t put toward sucking Bobo’s dick.

It was no surprise to find himself being shoved onto his belly. He might even have offered to do it himself if he’d been  _ permitted _ to talk. Bobo’s arms crossed over his chest and pulled him back against the curve of the man’s body. It drove his cock against Doc’s ass in a way not at all comforting. Bobo was a philosopher with the voice of the devil himself, biting his words into the back of Doc’s shoulders, saying: “I could fuck you like this.”

He  _ could _ because he’d already pinned Doc down, he’d gotten the upper hand with minimal effort. A fight could be had, there was the slightest chance that Doc might even win it. There was a greater chance that he wouldn’t and along the way he’d just make it worse for himself. 

Bobo was enjoying his moment; (not that he’d finally gotten one). He was digging his teeth into Doc’s skin anywhere he could get a mouthful. Leaving it feeling well-chewed and slightly crisped. He was grinding his cock against Doc like seconds passing on a clock. 

Tick-tock, tick-tock, what a cock.

“What would Wyatt  _ think  _ of  _ that _ ?”

Doc made some effort to get the arms off his chest, but he didn’t have the leverage to give it proper effort. His knees sank too deeply into the saggy mattress, he could move his arms for how they were pinned under Bobo’s. The best he’d managed was to be flattened to the mattress with the full weight of smugness pushing him down. 

Bobo shifted back so the head of dick was threatening to follow through the half-expressed threat.

Wyatt might have thought that Doc was a God damn moron for getting in this situation to start with. But he wouldn’t have been surprised. Not to find Doc fucking someone else. Not even that it was a man Wyatt had killed a hundred years ago. That was the sort of friend Doc was, the kind that you weren’t surprised to find fucking a demon. Doc pressed his forehead against the flattened pillows just to lift his mouth away from the suffocating closeness of the bed beneath him. He grit out, “I would prefer if you did not.”

“What?” Bobo’s tongue was as hot as his teeth, licking their way up the back of Doc’s neck, taking their sweet time to reach his ear. He was  _ amused _ by the upper hand he’d found at last. “Did you say something?”

Doc turned his face, “I  _ said _ , I would prefer if you did not fuck me without proper lubrication.”

“I would prefer if you did not fuck without proper lubrication…” 

There was such a thing as a man taking something too far. Doc shoved his knees into the bed to make some attempt to lurch forward again but Bobo’s grip tightened and neither one of them moved more than a flinch’s worth of space. 

“Your highness?” Doc offered.

Bobo’s laugh was a growl at the back of his neck. He was so pleased with himself he could barely manage a real voice to say, “I would have settled for  _ please _ . But if you want to call me your king.”

On the long list of things Doc was willing to call Bobo Del Rey,  _ king _ did not feature. Still, it appeared to work to loosen the man’s inescapable grip on his body, and the bed shifted in such a way to suggest the lubrication was being retrieved. “Is that what you wanted Wyatt to call you? His  _ king _ ? That wasn’t the sort of thing he called his lovers.”

Bobo snorted. “Oh I know what sort of things he called  _ you _ .” 

After all the preamble, and the threats, and the bullshit, Bobo fell over behind him. He was laying with his head at the foot of the bed and his lube-shiny fist slicking his cock up. His grin was a dare that his eyebrows echoed, and he nudged Doc’s hip with one of his heels. “Come ride my dick,” like the lazy piece of shit he was.

Doc weighed the pros of simply taking his pants and calling the whole thing a stupid waste of his time. There were other methods of attaining the name of the Stone Witch that didn’t involve giving this bastard the satisfaction. And Doc was very capable of satisfying any person he took to his bed. 

“Ride my dick,” Bobo repeated, “and I’ll give you the name of the witch, like we agreed.” 

Doc turned around to look at him, the whole cocky spread of him. His skin was white as a ghost’s in the pissy yellow light. His face was an insult to any man forced to look at it. His body was as flashy as a peacocks. 

“Leave,” Bobo said as he tipped his head to one side, like he’d been saving this last bit in case things didn’t work out the way he wanted, “and I’ll tell  _ her _ you’re looking for her. I don’t think she’d like that very much.” 

“Bobo Del Rey.” The words were a snarl, not a single one of them spoken with respect. Doc grabbed the half-emptied lube out of the sheets as he crawled forward on his knees. He took the precaution of applying extra lubrication to himself (since such shoddy prep work had been done up to this point) before he wrapped his fingers around the  _ only _ useful part of the otherwise useless waste of a man lying beneath him. “You are a  _ bitch _ .”

Doc rested on his knees with one hand back between his spread thighs and the other at Bobo’s chortling throat. He took his time sinking down onto cock in his hand, watching how the smugness on Bobo’s face turned pink and shocked. 

That was the two of them, breathing hard and staring at one another. Doc’s lips pulled up into a smile as he settled into place. He was concentrating on the cock inside of him, shifting his hips to figure out how he could put it best use. He must have found it, because his eyes were closing on their own accord and he shuddered from the top of his spine to the soles of his feet. 

Things were better with his eyes closed. It was just his body with his eyes closed. His hands hands walking up his own thighs. His straining cock waiting to be touched. His ragged breath, and his sweat gathering up on his face. It was his palm, and his fingers so intimately and thoroughly known by him, that wrapped around his cock. He knew what he liked better than anyone alive-or-dead on this planet. He knew how to grip himself, and where to touch, and how quick to move. 

He’d had a century to work it out.

With his eyes closed, he could have been anywhere, with  _ anyone _ , and that was exactly what Bobo Del Rey did  _ not _ want.

“I’m not the only bitch,” said the man who had just minutes ago threatened to fuck a man dry and had the gall to act like he was owed something. But he slapped both his hands on Doc’s hips and pulled him  _ up _ and then  _ down _ again. As he dragged Doc back down on his cock, he thrust up so they met somewhere in the middle.

“Oh,” Doc gasped. He opened his eyes in time with the compulsive way his hands grabbed at Bobo’s wrists. “I was under the impression you were not going to be  _ participating _ in our sexual encounter.”

“You really want me to fuck you,” Bobo growled at him. He rolled them so Doc was flat on his back how he started, “I’ll  _ fuck _ you.”

“Oh yes,” Doc agreed, “I really do.” 

Bobo kissed him like punching in the face. There was no sweetness in this kiss, no attempt to pretend that they had any intentions but the obvious ones. Bobo kissed him recklessly, all teeth and hell-breath. The mattress squealed under his scrambling knees, searching for purchase in the ruined bedclothes. When he found it, he fucked forward with such force the whole stupid tin can lurched on it’s foundation. 

Doc slapped his arm against the wall over his head for fear of getting his brains bashed out but his traitorous legs were wrapped around Bobo’s hips like a sign of encouragement. “Bobo, I am sorry that I doubted you. I was not aware you had any experience in--”

“Shut,” Bobo hissed into already-bruising throat, “the fuck,” as his teeth found a new place they liked the taste of, “up,” as he bit down. The thrusts of his hips was pushing them both across the bed heedless of Doc’s meager attempts to save his own skull. That might have been more concerning for any man who could have had a rational thought that didn’t involve tightening his legs to rock his dick up against the man fucking him. 

Doc had a weakness for things that felt good. And this, this right here, being ceaselessly pounded into a dying mattress, well that felt something just a shade better than  _ good _ . Removed of ridiculous pretense, and pointless cruelty, and needless jeers about former lovers, Bobo was a mighty capable lover. 

“Christ,” the man growled into his throat. 

“Not quite,” Doc promised him. He was dragging his nails down Bobo’s straining arms, wondering at the thick brown of his blood in between scattered thoughts and sensations. He could have been giving himself a hand, but he was smearing Bobo’s revenant blood up his arm and across his shoulder. It was gummy on his fingers when he pushed them into Bobo’s mouth. 

The man’s teeth clenched on his fingers, but he didn’t break the skin. His tongue ran up the length of them in his mouth, and his lips closed around the base of Doc’s fingers. Bobo drove his cock as deep as he could get it with both hands at Doc’s waist pulling him down like he could any deeper with a little more effort. 

“That’s it?” Doc gasped.

Bobo was sitting back on his knees, swiping his hand through his hair, looking  _ offended _ to be questioned. “Shut up,” he said  _ again _ .

“Forgive me for inquiring but as you can see,” he motioned at his own dick, still patiently waiting for attention, “I have yet to benefit from our present arrangement.” 

“I don’t recall our agreement having anything to do with  _ your _ benefit.” That was quite a deal of bravado for a man who was quickly becoming one of Doc’s worst lovers to date. Bobo didn’t seem to understand that the meaning of his words didn’t match with the shift of his hips, or the way he gripped at Doc’s thighs to pull him up higher on Bobo’s bent legs. “But I’m a  _ giving _ guy.”

Doc dropped a hand down to his own dick just in case that turned out to be another one the many mind games that Bobo had attempted to play during their elongated affair. The frenzied pace of their earlier fucking had eased into a ceaseless wave of motion. Bobo wasn’t putting his back into it with the same vigor (and why would he? He got what he wanted). But there was something to be said for the increased coordination and timing. He was getting fucked like a metronome now, and a giddy oxygen-deprived part of his brain thought he might as well start singing a song. 

“Stop humming or I’ll gag you,” Bobo bit into his ear.

“Speed up then.” Someone must have taught Bobo how to heel because he did exactly what he was told. Doc was fisting his dick without mercy, clenching his legs around Bobo’s body because he hadn’t had an orgasm outside a well in a hundred God damn years. (All things considered, it was really a shame it was going to be wasted on this man.) 

Oh, but it did feel so  _ nice _ .

Bobo sat back when the moment passed, staring down at him with an undefinable sort of stare. Whatever he thought he was getting out of his genius attack must not have satisfied him the way he thought it might. (But vengeance rarely ever worked out the way you thought it would.) The man ran his thumb through the thickest white stripe on Doc’s belly and spread it across his own tongue like a starving man at a buffet. 

Doc was all out of breath and wit. If he’d had his hat in grabbing distance, he might have just pulled it over his face and gone back to sleep. His attempt at lazily enjoying the moment was interrupted by a rude slap against his thigh and the abruptness of Bobo pulling out. 

For all his laziness along the way, Bobo was in a hurry to be done now. He yanked on his jeans with a fresh growl at the hole he hadn’t cared about before. He shoved his feet into his boots with complete disregard for the boots welfare. And he grabbed his coat without shrugging it up onto his shoulders like the unnecessarily dramatic armor it really was. He only stopped on his mad dash to the door to extend a hand toward his belt. It jumped off the floor where it had been left and into his hand.

“We had a deal,” Doc said. He sat up just far enough to find his matches so he could enjoy a well-deserved smoke. “Unless you would like me to believe that you were not satisfied.” Although there was an oozing unpleasantness between his thighs that seemed to indicate satisfaction was had. 

Bobo’s sighs were always rumbles. “The witch’s name is Constance Clootie.” Then he knocked the door open with more force than it could probably handle.


End file.
